


dreaming as the days go by (dreaming as the summers die)

by Synapse



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Bart Allen Needs A Hug, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Good Older Sibling Dick Grayson, Homework, Hospitals, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jay Garrick is a Good Grandfather, Mindlink, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Depression, Team Dynamics, Teamwork Problems, Tim Drake Has Mental Health Issues, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, bike ride, season one-season two gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synapse/pseuds/Synapse
Summary: A collection of DC and DC-related oneshots written in the month of August. Updates every other day, with occasional bonus material.---After waking in the infirmary, Wally enjoys a quiet moment with Artemis.
Relationships: Artemis Crock/Wally West, Bart Allen & Jay Garrick, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 64





	1. speed delivery

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Lewis Carroll's "A Boat, Beneath a Sunny Sky." 
> 
> This is a personal challenge to myself, partly to get better at writing and partly to try a low-pressure month-long challenge. Some of these are from prompts, some are just ideas I've come up with. 
> 
> \---  
> 1- speed delivery: YJ. The Team likes to help each other with homework. Wally gives Artemis a little extra boost with her chemistry.
> 
> 2- pointless arguing: YJ. Roy drives a wedge in the Team when he joins. Kaldur's not sure how to handle it.
> 
> 3- cloudy ride: General Batfamily. Tim's depression hits him full-force. Dick comes to comfort him, and takes him out for a bike ride.
> 
> 4- mind link: YJ. A mindlink is a complex thing. The Team learns this the hard way.
> 
> 5- new blood: YJ. Bart's settling into the Garricks' home. When Jay sits down to talk with him, they both learn something new.
> 
> 6- hospital bed: YJ. After waking in the infirmary, Wally enjoys a quiet moment with Artemis.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Team likes to help each other with homework. Wally gives Artemis a little extra boost with her chemistry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it begins! Flash fact: the alternate title for this chapter was "yellow notebook."

"Ugh," Wally grumbles, throwing himself onto the couch in the lounge. The springs creak angrily in protest as he props his feet up on the coffee table, avoiding the mountains of homework and notebooks piled on the glass surface. 

He huffs at the noise. "Yeah, yeah, me too." The springs aren't the ones who just finished a five-hour-long mission. His back is _killing_ him. _Only eighteen and I've already got the body of an old man_.

Admittedly it probably has something more to do with, you know, carrying two hundred civilians out of a burning building all by himself, but he'd prefer not to think about that right now. 

It's late at night (or early in the morning? he's not sure) and the rest of the Team's busy showering. He'd finished first, as always, so he's taking a well-earned break before he heads back home. 

Wally drops his head onto the back of the couch and- _o_ _w._ He needs to stop forgetting about the hard edge behind the cushions. Shifting his weight, he moves to throw his feet to the end of the sofa, and his ankle catches on a stack of precariously balanced textbooks. 

One by one, they begin to fall, pages fluttering in slow-motion. If he wants to, he can catch all of them long before they touch the ground. But his back hurts. His feet ache. Running at full speed for five straight hours has left him drained. He has no plans to be catching anything anytime soon.

Except, he realizes as he watches Dick's science textbook flip over midair, some of those are _Artemis_ 's books, and they're filled with notes, and if they fall they're going to go everywhere, and ruin her organization, and... 

Oh, hell. She'd kill him.

Lunging forward, he snatches them all up- _ow_ , his back, his _aching_ back- and puts them to rights with a second to spare. Snatching a yellow-covered notebook away from the floor, he starts to set it on top. Wally pauses at the color and takes a second look.

Sure enough, it's Artemis's chemistry notebook, _Chem_ written in rounded Sharpie letters over the plastic cover. Post-it notes and handouts stick out left, right, and center. Atomic numbers and chemical structure diagrams are scribbled in with cramped multi-color pen notations. 

Near the back, two inches of a sheet with _Homework, Due Tomorrow_ printed at the top sticks out, edges slightly crumbled. She's added _Test Tuesday!_ beside it in red ink. 

"Huh," he mumbles as he settles back into the couch. Correcting his teammate's science-related homework is second nature by now. Artemis has a knack for physics- comes with archery, he suspects- and she's pretty good at chemistry basics, but when it comes to the complex stuff... saying it's not her favorite thing is like saying he gets peckish occasionally, or that Superman's a little stronger than average. As he flicks through the pages he can tell she's in the thick of it. There are at least five mistakes on her homework sheet. 

Wally shrugs, grabs a pencil from the multicolored mug on the table, and starts to write. 

Tumblers click softly against the brass key, and Artemis breathes a sigh of relief when her apartment door swings open with barely a creak. She'd forgotten to oil it this month. Most people wouldn't worry about a little creak. But when your door screeches like Klarion's cat on helium and you make a habit of coming home in the early hours of the morning... well, the neighbors don't exactly appreciate it. 

Nor would her mother. Artemis softens her footsteps as she creeps in, not bothering to turn the light on. A mental map of the apartment alerts her to every creaky floorboard and piece of furniture. She makes it to her bedroom without incident, leaving her (thankfully not so squeaky) door cracked.

The clock on her nightstand reads 2:37 AM as she drops her backpack on the unmade bed. Flicking the light on, she grabs her pajamas and heads for the bathroom.

It's been a long day, and not just because of the extra-long mission. All the promises of an easy senior year, the claims of _you can do whatever you want!_ and _it's so easy!_ and _all the younger students bow to your elder wisdom!_ are lies. Blatant, utter lies. If anything her classes got harder, though that might be partly due to her volunteering for double advanced English classes. One AM is the average bedtime of most students who dared touch the "AP" and "honors" and "advanced" ranks. 

Of course, they don't have saving-the-world duties added on to essays and mountains of French, she thinks dryly as she brushes her teeth. 

Most of the Team are knee-deep in homework when she walks into the Mountain these days. It's easiest to skip home and go straight to the zeta after school on mission days. They've become a sort of study group now. If it weren't for the variation in classes and career paths and schools they'd probably swap answers. 

As it is, she usually proofreads for Wally or corrects M'ganns grammar while Conner jots revisions on her history homework and Zatanna laughs at her supposedly atrocious pronunciation of oiseaux. Raquel has proven to be skillful at advising on debate and persuasive papers and anything legal-related. Dick's a jack of all trades, but as the other science geek and native computer expert, he typically inspects whatever Wally can't or math, unless Babs is around and not covering her identity with her dad. 

Frankly, if it weren't for their habit to study together, she's not sure any of them would score higher than Cs. 

Leaving her toothbrush on the sink, she steals back into her room, all the while reviewing her mental checklist: _English essay, done, calculus, done, French assignment has that flipbook, history report has two paragraphs to go, and then there's that chemistry homework and test..._

She reaches for her backpack and hesitates when it slides toward her a little too easily. It's never this light. Not unless...

Artemis stares into its cramped depths and scrubs at her eyes before looking again, hoping her missing things will magically reappear.

They do not. She rifles through her folders, shoving aside her folded uniform and digging to the back of the bag. 

Her chemistry notebook is missing. So is the accompanying textbook. And her laptop. An impressive string of curses threatens to spill from her lips. 

It's not as though this doesn't happen. It does, with increasing levels of frustration and frequency. Her list of late assignments and excuses is a mile long thanks to losing worksheets on Zatanna's desk or the middle of the heap of papers in the lounge. But she's trying to work on it if only to keep her overbearing history teacher from making disappointed eyes at her. 

Not because she feels bad. It's hard to be sympathetic to the teacher who insists on giving them essays every week and whose soporific lectures rival Professor Binn's. But Bette Kane likes to mimic his "thee hath failed me" expression at her at inconvenient times, and she's going to get sent to the office one of these days if she keeps laughing in the middle of speeches on civic duty.

Artemis does her _civic duty_ every night. She doesn't need lectures on it. If only she could tell Mr. Hodges that. 

(But then he'd probably turn it into a discourse on all the problems with superheroes and... forget it. She has better things to do.)

Flopping back onto her bed, she reviews her options. She could forget her homework, go to bed, and make (another) excuse tomorrow. Option two is to swing by the Mountain early tomorrow morning, pray Zatanna's famous waffles don't distract her and finish her homework in first period when the teacher isn't watching. 

Her third choice- the one her mom would encourage her to take, the option the _sensible_ and _responsible_ and _exceptional_ young Gotham Academy student would take- is to go back to the Mountain and pick up her work now. 

The first possibility is looking dangerously enticing right now. 

Artemis groans, shoves her backpack off the bed and turns over to faceplant in her pillow. She can't do that. Or rather, she could, but her grades won't let her do it in good conscious. Her scholarship from Bruce Wayne, aka _Batman,_ won't let her. 

The pact she'd made with Wally to keep their grades up so they can go to Stanford together won't let her. 

Pausing, Artemis props herself up on her elbows and eyes her backpack, considering. 

There's one more option. It risks her getting laughed at, but it's not as though she doesn't endure that every day anyway. The things she does for love.

She digs through her backpack again, pulls out her phone, and goes to her contacts. As she's about to tap _Wall-E_ , though-

_Bzz. Bzz_.

Huh. He's got a knack for timing.

_Wall-E_

_2:53 AM_

open ur apartment door pls? 

_2:53 AM_

Coming, what's up

_Wall-E_

_2:58 AM_

u forgot something 

Forget everything bad she's ever said about Kid Flash. She has the _best_ boyfriend. 

Sure enough, he's waiting in the hallway with a self-satisfied smile when she peeks through the peephole. He shoots her a sideways smirk as she eases the door open and holds out the stack of her stuff. 

"Hi," he says, shit-eating grin growing wider as she takes her things. "The atomic number for tellurium is fifty two, not fifty six, by the way." 

Artemis whacks his shoulder. "Snooping through my notes again, Kid Einstein?" 

"Hey, at least I don't write in-jokes on the essay outline I have to hand in to my teacher." He leans in to kiss her, and she obliges. 

When they part she snorts at him, smirking. "They weren't that bad. At least it wasn't Dick. And you got an A-minus. Stop whining." 

"B plus," he corrects, and Artemis rolls her eyes. There's a muffled buzz from his pocket. 

Wally doesn't even bother to check. "Aaand that'll be Mom," he says with a groan. "I'd love to stay and chat, but..." 

"Don't lie. We both know you'd rather be sleeping," she quips back, kissing him again. "See you tomorrow, babe." 

Laughing, he pulls away. "See you, beautiful." Then he's gone, down the dim hallway and into the night, and she's left with a pile of homework and only three hours until her alarm clock goes off. 

Shaking her head fondly, she shuts the door and heads back to her room, dropping the pile on her desk. She flicks open the lemon yellow cover of her notebook (now with a tiny doodle of the Flash icon in the corner, _really_ , Wally?) to her homework in the back, and pulls it out. 

A lime green sticky note that wasn't there before is stuck under a doodle of an arrow. As she reads it, weight begins to lift from her shoulders. 

All the answers are written down on it. When she lifts her worksheet, there's another piece of loose-leaf under it, covered in cramped all-capital handwriting. Smudges of lead indicate speed writing, but the explanations are still legible. It's a cheat sheet and study tool all in one. 

Nope, no contenders here. Best boyfriend. Ever. 

_2: 59 AM_

Okay, fine, you're the best

_Wall-E_

_3:00 AM_

you admit it! finally

_3:00 AM_

Don't push it

Thx <3

_Wall-E_

_3:00 AM_

ur welcome

sleep well babe <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the idea of the Team working together on homework. This idea's probably going to pop up in some of my later work.  
> Artemis absolutely chose a bright yellow notebook on purpose, by the way. She knew full well it'd end up covered in Wally's handwriting thanks to the year before.  
> A quick side note: I've been reading Mark Waid's 90s Flash run on Wally (he was Flash at the time) and it's pretty good. I'd definitely recommend it if you love Wally's YJ version.  
> See you in a couple days!


	2. pointless arguing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy drives a wedge in the Team when he joins. Kaldur's not sure how to handle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene! This is set about a week after season one's "Insecurity."

" _S_ _o,_ " Robin says, in his particular tone of voice- mind voice? Mental tone? Kaldur isn't sure. Whatever it is, it means he's up to no good. " _Who else is bored_?" 

Kaldur restrains the urge to sigh. Tipping his head back, he lets it fall against the tree trunk behind him. Roy, perched above him in the crook of a branch, ducks his head to shoot an amused glance at him through the dim evening glow. His message is unspoken but conveyed all the same: _It's Robin. What did you expect?_

Had it been a few months ago? More maturity. Less of a tendency to get bored in less than half an hour. Preferably, an ability to _not_ be a constant distraction on vitally important missions. You know- skills that Batman's protege would be likely to possess.

Of course, now Kaldur only has himself to blame for presuming Robin capable of anything other than mischief. He's going to start something. Kaldur can _feel_ it. He can only be grateful that Wally and Artemis aren't here to rise to the bait, as they usually do. 

Not, necessarily, that they would now, given recent events... 

Zatanna breaks his line of thought. Predictably, she's anything but helpful. " _Same here_ ," she says cheerily. " _How about you, M'gann_?" 

" _A little."_ Kaldur wishes she was close enough for him to read her expression- her tone is hard to parse. But she's camouflaged herself somewhere near the door of the compound they've staked out. Zatanna has squirreled herself away by the fence with the help of an illusion. Robin's on the roof. Conner is the only one who hasn't hidden nearby. Instead, he's with the bioship somewhere above. 

" _Care for some whelming conversation, then?_ " He doesn't wait for an answer. Kaldur considers interrupting. " _Hey, Aqualad, RA, maybe you can help us out. What the heck happened last week?_ " 

...he should have interrupted. Kaldur grits his teeth, shuts his eyes, and prays to Neptune for patience. 

Admittedly, he had anticipated the question. This is, after all, the first time their entire group was together without Artemis or Wally. After the... incident with Cheshire and Sportsmaster the week prior, the pair can't be trusted in the same room together, let alone on a mission. Any attempt to talk about it, however, is met with silence chillier than the deepest depths of the sea, whether or not the other is present. 

For a brief time, Kaldur had considered attempting to force the conversation anyway. But experience has shown him that pushing Wally or Artemis into anything rarely ends well. Giving them time to work it out is likely the best option.

But the rest of the group deserves an explanation. Or, rather, a more comprehensive conversation on how to handle the situation, given that they are well aware of the actual events. 

Roy, on the other hand, seems to have no such feelings. " _Y_ _ou already know what happened. Artemis_ -" 

" _I'd stop talking now, if I were you,_ " Zatanna says icily. " _You're biased._ " 

He scoffs. _"She_ lied _, Zatanna. That's not bias_." 

" _No thanks to you putting her down_." 

Kaldur glares up into the tree at Roy, but he's pointedly staring up at the canopy. " _Stop. We are not debating this_ ," he cuts in. " _You know the facts. You may keep your opinions to yourselves_." 

" _Zatanna's right, though,_ " M'gann says, on the edge of defensiveness. " _Red Arrow, you need to stop undermining her. She feels bad enough already._ " 

Conner's derisive snort comes through loud and clear in his thoughts. " _Don't bother, M'gann. We're supposed to be moles, remember? Why would he listen to us?_ "

" _I never said_ -" 

" _Red Arrow_ ," Kaldur warns. 

"- _that you were, I said that you were the most_ likely- _"_

 _"Roy!_ " He elbows the tree trunk. Roy's irate huff rustles against the leaves above as he goes quiet. " _The issue does need to be resolved. But arguing will not help that_." 

" _Uh, yeah, it needs to be resolved,_ " Robin says bitingly. _"I've never seen KF this bummed. Artemis missed more shots this week than the last three months combined. Seriously, the pining was bad enough, but I'd take that any day over this_." 

" _Pining? What pining_?" Roy interrupts sharply. 

" _Y'know, the- oh, wait. No, you don't._ _You decided to show up out of nowhere and bashed on Artemis the second you got the chance- who, by the way, already proved herself with her_ four months _of working with us, after you decided we weren't good enough to even join until GA got on your ass for it! You weren't even around to listen to KF's nonstop chatter about her!_ " Kaldur bites his lip as he listens, glancing up at a stunned Red Arrow. " _So no, Roy. You don't get to lecture us when you only joined to get into the League!_ " 

Shocked silence. 

" _I didn't-_ ... _how'd you find out about that?_ " 

" _How do you_ think _?_ " 

" _Wait,_ " M'gann says slowly. " _You're not here for us? You're- you're here because Green Arrow told you to join before you went on to the League_?" 

" _Of course he is. He's just too good for us._ " The bitterness in Conner's words is tangible on his tongue. 

" _That is_ not true _-_ " 

" _Oh, come on_ -" 

The mindlink explodes in a burst of angry yelling. Kaldur winces and drops his head into his hands. A building ache lingers behind his temples as he waits it out. 

He'd known Robin had taken Roy's decision to leave badly. The latest problems had only incensed him further, especially thanks to Wally's shutdown. Evidently, however, he hadn't realized the full extent. Rarely has he heard such acidity from any of the Team, let alone easygoing, openminded Robin. 

That said... some part of him is grateful for the venom. Roy needs to hear it, _deserves_ to hear it, even if Kaldur's not willing to deliver it himself. 

He fiddles with a stray piece of bark. It's physically painful to watch their two formerly close friends shun one another. Only a week and already the tension is unbearable, leaving him nostalgic for the days when they'd ganged up on him with their banter. That, he could deal with, even occasionally join in with. Even their biting jibes and antagonistic attitudes from August would be better than the polar silence. 

And it's more than that, even. The bark snaps between his fingers as he recalls the last week. The impact has driven a wedge in the team. Without Kid Flash and Artemis's proficient partnership, battles have swiftly become much harder. Wally won't speak to Roy as much as he perpetually avoids Artemis. Despite Zatanna and M'gann's inclination to crowd around her, she's stopped coming to the Mountain at all unless asked. Conner and Robin are the only ones remaining relatively neutral, but "neutral" for Conner seems to be something closer to a refusal to remain in the same room with Roy when he doesn't have to. 

Kaldur's tried to talk to all of them, individually and in groups. Nothing's worked. 

Wally's not wrong, and admittedly neither is Roy: Artemis _had_ deceived them. The knowledge leaves a sour taste in his mouth, reminds him of Queen Mera and the cracked, crumbling structures of Atlantis, of black-suited men and Oceanmaster's dark-eyed helmet, of Tula lying glassy-eyed and unconscious in Garth's arms.

But Roy's abrupt entrance and hostile attitude left her with little choice but to worry. Back in the military, it had been the same: constantly fighting for a commander's trust, striving to prove you were _good enough_ , and the sting when an older officer or recruit called you out for some dreamt-up reasons to drop you from a mission. 

No one's right here, and that's the trouble. He can't make them face facts when there aren't any, can't force them to listen when he doesn't know what to say. 

A twig cracks, breaking his concentration. The crack of a bullet splits the night air. Red Arrow and Superboy's shrill argument ends midsentence. 

He takes the blessed silence for a second and soaks it in. Then he barks out orders. For the first time that night, there's no biting retorts. 

The rhythm of the mission sweeps him up and away. But the trouble itches even as he swings his swords and covers Roy's back when the rest refuse to watch out for him. It's a problem for later, an issue he's going to have to work out separately. Talk Roy down, or convince the others to back off, perhaps lock Wally into the room so he can't go sprinting out or have Robin pickpocket Artemis's phone so she can't claim her mom wants her to come home, or... or... 

Shoulders sagging, he sheathes his waterbearers and surveys the mess. No one had ever said leading the group would be easy. He hadn't anticipated it would be. But he's fairly certain Batman doesn't have to deal with these sorts of arguments in the League, either. 

Somehow, he's got to fix this. He just wishes he knew how. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, before people start shouting at me: I love Roy. This is not meant to be Roy-bashing at all. But I do think the Team would've taken his response to Artemis pretty badly, considering A) he was essentially an invading outsider who was, as Wally put it, "dumping on her" near-constantly and was pretty nasty overall, and B) had very pointedly thought himself above the Team up until Green Arrow coerced him into joining. Which, yes, clone instructions, but they didn't know that then, so it would still have come off as him being an ass. The time period between "Insecurity" and "Usual Suspects" is HUGE, about two weeks, but for some reason I rarely see fics focusing on it (other than AU fics). Which is surprisingly, honestly, given how significant of a period of time it must've been for Wally and Artemis's relationship, and that it's the only time period in which Roy was part of the Team at all. 
> 
> Kaldur tends to be an underrated character in the fandom- I really, really really love him, especially his dry sense of humor and his attitude as team leader. As someone who has also had to wrangle a group of slightly younger friends into paying attention to a task (and was eventually infected with their wonderful insanity), I can empathize :P But I do find him tricky to write, hence this bit of practice. I'm still not totally satisfied with my portrayal of him, though, so... this is gonna take a bit to figure out.
> 
> Ah, also, Robin. Dick's got a bit more of a temper than the fandom tends to give him credit for, which I tapped into here, but I'd also like to point out how frustrating this must've been for him. Because, hey- Dick KNEW why Artemis behaved the way she did on that mission. Most likely it was killing him to have to watch this happen, because he could've probably solved at least a chunk of it by explaining what he knew- but because Artemis was (rightfully so) entitled to a secret identity, he has to just watch everything fall apart. Ouch.
> 
> See you in a couple days! As always, thank you for reading, and comments are always appreciated <3


	3. cloudy ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's depression has come back full-force. Dick offers some kind words, then takes him out for a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for depression, including self-destructive thoughts and self-loathing. Please take care of yourselves! <3
> 
> I'm so sorry for the large gap in updates. Life got busy quickly without warning. I'll be aiming to post again tomorrow, and at some point will make up the lost chapter as well!

There is a weight on Tim's chest. 

It pins him to the bed among his tangled sheets and twisted comforter. Sometimes he'd swear it was an animal, icy claws digging into his shoulders, grinning toothily down at him in dark triumph. 

Most of the time, though, it's merely a vice, twisting tight around him, injecting heady numbness in his veins. 

He should be doing something: following up on a case, or responding to the texts pinging on his phone, or training, or even just getting up from his bed. But his limbs are weighed by hundred-pound barbells and he's sinking, sinking, sinking through the murk to the bottom of his life. All the oxygen is stolen from his lungs by the weight. Movement is impossible. 

_Get up_ , he thinks dully for the hundredth time in the last half hour. _Move. Come on, Tim, you're better than this._

If it didn't sap so much energy, he'd scoff at himself. Better? _Better_? Where had _that_ come from? 

How many murders has he failed to stop? How many people he never saved? What about the blood soaking his hands, the blood of his parents, the blood of his friends, the blood of his family? Tim doesn't _deserve_ to live, after all he's done. Destruction follows his every step. 

Besides, it's not as though anyone cares. If they do it's a waste of their time. They shouldn't care, not after all he's been responsible for. 

Tim is useless, plain and simple, and he knows it well. 

A little voice in the back of his head takes offense to the thought. _Move_ , it cries. Asshole. He fixes his eyes on the darkened ceiling and does his best to tune it out as his chest grows tighter. Its whining dies in the fog that seeps in. 

The door clicks, then creaks quietly open. A beam of light shimmers through. Tim watches it inch across the ceiling, doesn't give it much more thought than that. 

"Tim?" 

...Dick. 

"Hey, buddy." A weight settles at the head of his bed. He closes his eyes. It feels like doing two hundred pushups. 

Why is he here? 

A warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "Tim? I know you're awake." 

Tim doesn't move to answer, doesn't say anything at all. Maybe, if he stays still enough, Dick will stop wasting his time and leave. 

The gust of breath of a sigh brushes over his forehead. "Could you sit up for a sec, please?" 

He squeezes his eyelids shut tighter. Why Dick's bothering to waste his time on him, he'll never know. Maybe it's because he thinks he cares. If he does, then he needs to wake up from whatever twisted dream he's living. Tim doesn't deserve his help. He doesn't _want_ his help. 

"I've got something for you." 

Tim gropes for the edges of the numbness and tugs them closer. 

"Tim," Dick says, quiet and pleading. 

How is this fair? _Go away,_ he wants to shout. _Leave me alone. Leave me to my misery. You can't help and you know it and you shouldn't anyway._ How _dare_ Dick try to pull him out of his numbness. How dare he try to breach the walls that keep the monsters of the nightmares at bay. 

"Look, buddy. I know you're not feeling good right now. And trust me, I've been there." 

_Yeah, right_. If moving right now didn't require the effort of rolling Tantalus's stone up the mountain, he'd roll his eyes. Maybe it comes across anyway because Dick keeps talking. 

"No, really. I know that's hard to believe." The bedsprings creak as he shifts his weight. "And I guess it's different for everyone. But... look. Maybe you want to move. Maybe you're desperate to, and you just... can't. I hate it when that happens." 

His sigh is harsh and quiet. "Or maybe... maybe you don't want to. Maybe it's just easier to stay numb right now because everything just feels so bad. I remember days... feeling like I was useless. Feeling like I was just causing problem after problem after problem." A rusty, quiet half-laugh. "Roy told me that it was selfish to think that I was the cause of every problem, once. It wasn't very helpful, but then again I guess what works for him doesn't work for me. It made me feel even more worthless. I kept hurting everyone around me, or at least it felt like it, and I figured... it'd just be easier if no one else was around. Because it's not worth it. But Tim- and I know this is going to sound like a lie, you're probably not going to believe me, and that's okay, but I want you to hear me anyway. You _are_ worth it." 

Something's clogging in his throat, his chest growing tighter and tighter. _Stop_ , he wants to gasp, _stop_ , but he doesn't have the breath to speak it. 

Thickly, Dick continues, "Even if it doesn't feel like it, even if you can't believe it right now, just hear me out, okay? You're good. You're _amazing_ , Tim. You work so hard and you persevere like no one else, and you're so smart. You're so smart that it scares me, sometimes. And you care. You care a lot, and you do more for us than I guess we'll ever realize. And I know you don't think so right now, but you're a great friend, and the best little brother anyone could ask for. And I don't want you to forget that, okay?" 

When did his eyes get wet? He blinks the tears away and shakes his head as much as he can with it feeling like it's made of titanium. 

Dick's _wrong_. He's none of those things. He's awkward and stupid and his older brother's seeing what he wants to, projecting onto Tim. He has to see the best in everyone. 

(But Dick had said he'd feel like that, hadn't he, predicted all of that too? And didn't that have to mean something, didn't that mean that maybe, just maybe, that little voice... wasn't wrong?) 

Dick squeezes his shoulder. "I won't stay if you don't want me to, but..." 

The thought makes his chest ache harder. He doesn't want him there. 

But the idea of being alone again is somehow agonizing. 

Tim reaches inside and finds the strength to lift the anvils on his eyelids, and tries his best to blink, searches for Dick. He's staring off to the end of the room with a haunted expression, but a moment later he turns back, sky-blue eyes meeting his. His expression lights up in something like a pained, sympathetic smile. 

Tim doesn't need any damn sympathy, but the anger that flares has no oxygen to feed it, and so it dies a quick and painless death. A sigh passes through his lips. 

Dick seems to take it as a sign, sliding back to rest his back on the headboard and pressing his warm legs up along Tim's side. His movement reveals the glass of water and pills in his hand, but a moment later they're gone again, disappearing on to the nightstand. His hand moves from Tim's shoulder to his hair, ruffling it before settling there, buried in the greasy black strands. He can't bring himself to shove it off. 

Dick shouldn't be here, but he is, and though Tim can think of a thousand reasons why he should go, he knows not a single one would move him. 

Closing his eyes and fighting the burning of his eyes and throat, he does his best to keep breathing. Eventually, his breaths fall back to a quiet rhythm. The warmth of Dick against him is strangely soothing. Sleep drags him down into a loose embrace. When he wakes again, the vise wrapped around his chest is still tight, but his limbs have lightened. Peeling his eyes open, he glances up. 

Dick's still there, chest rising and falling in a slow sleepy rhythm. Tim doesn't want to disturb him or the hand still in his hair, so he stays put. 

Why is he still here? It's got to be hours later. Doesn't he have work as Nightwing? What about the Titans? The rest of the Bats? He shouldn't be here. He should be with them. 

As though sensing the thought, the rise and fall of his chest quickens, eyes flickering open. Immediately he glances down. Tim stares back up at him. 

"Hey," he whispers. "Feel better?" 

There's barely enough feeling in his limbs for him to shake his head. An instant later he regrets it. Now Dick's never going to leave, and he won't do his work and someone will get hurt all because Tim had to forget his pills and take up all his time- 

"Stop that." He's frowning at him. "Seriously. Stop. I can guess what you're doing. I took the weekend off. It's okay." 

Tim's still wasting his time. As though realizing this, Dick closes his eyes and bites his lip. Looking back up, he says, "Could you sit up, please?" 

If he's going to ruin his free weekend he might as well be helpful while he's at it. His limbs take a moment to get the message, every ounce of his hundred-forty-something pounds weighing on him as he pushes himself up. A moment later a glass of water is pressed into his hands. 

"You forgot your meds." It's not a question, not an accusation either, but judgment still weighs on Tim's shoulders all the same. 

He takes the pills Dick offers and swallows them with the water, even though he could've just dry-swallowed them, which Dick knows. Then he slumps back against the headboard. Distantly, he notices how light it is through the cracks of the curtains. 

"I'll be back in a bit," he says as he returns the glass to the nightstand. "I've got some things to set up." A pause. "Actually, do you want to come with?" 

Tim shrugs into the invisible ten-pound bags on his shoulders and gets a measuring stare in response. Then- 

"I'm taking that as a yes, okay?" 

He shrugs again. A moment later he's being lifted, legs tucked up over Dick's arm, head leaning on his chest, bridal-style. It probably should've elicited a yelp, maybe a little squirming. But as aware of this as he is, he can't bring himself to do anything more than lay limp and still. 

There's some kind of irony here. Something about Dick carrying his weight, mentally and physically. He feels a little ill at the thought. 

"Is this okay?" There's a tinge of worry in Dick's tone as he readjusts his weight. Tim lets his head fall forward in a sort of nod. If carrying him makes him feel better, well, then, whatever. 

They leave his room, the bright light of the hall making him blink. Dick takes the stairs at a jog with barely a jostle, shouldering open the garage door and wandering further down. There's a lawn chair set up near the outdoor equipment at the end, which he's lowered into. A yellow dirtbike sits nearby, propped on its kickstand beside the open back door of a silver car. 

Someone's left a small duffle bag beside the chair. Tim stares dully down into it, noting the set of clothing. It bears a suspicious resemblance to the contents of his closet. There are shorts and a shirt and socks, tennis shoes sitting beside them. The sight makes him aware of his current ratty garments, a pair of ancient sweatpants and a baggy Superman T-shirt. 

He glances up, catching Dick watching him. "I was thinking," his older brother says casually, "that if you were up for it, we could go for a ride." 

Tim shrugs again- _is that all you can do_? a little voice mocks in his head- and does his best to school his expression into something accepting. The last thing he wants to do right now is move, but if Dick wants it, he guesses he can go along. Stop ruining his weekend, hopefully, though he'll probably do that anyway when he ends up being too slow or something. 

"Okay, great," he says cautiously. "If you change your mind, it's okay. Just say something. You're not obliged to come if you don't want to." He turns back to a second bike, fiddling with the tires, then seems to recall something. "Oh- there's clothing in the bag if you wanna change." 

The lead of his limbs is melting away, turning to something more like aluminum. Still heavy, yes, but movable all the same. As Dick fiddles with a pressure gauge, he snags the handle of the duffle back and lifts it to finger the fabric of the shirt. It's green, soft and faded. Picking it up, he drags himself, step by agonizing step, into the house. 

When he reaches the nearest bathroom he slumps on the closed toilet seat and seriously considers, for a second, just staying there. He's going to slow Dick down. He doesn't even _want_ to go outside. Riding a bike sounds like agony. 

At the same time, the little voice in the back of his mind is screaming at him to _go, go, it'll help, it'll take some of this away, it'll make you feel better_. It sounds a lot like Dick, or Barbara, or Kon, or Cassie, or even maybe Jason.

He puts on the clean shirt. 

When he comes back, the bikes are in the back of the car, and Dick's throwing a pair of helmets in the trunk.

"Ready to go?" he asks. Tim manages a nod. "Okay." 

_This is stupid_ , he wants to say. _Why do you want me along? I'm just going to slow you down._

But he's looking at him with something that's less pity and more hope, painfully warm in his bright blue eyes, and somehow Tim can't let that light go out. Can't be a disappointment, _again_. He's wrapped in a half-hug for the effort. 

Dropping into the seat beside Dick, he lets him click the seatbelt over him and settles his eyes on the road as they ease out of the garage and into the warm afternoon sunlight. As soon as they're out, the car shoots down the driveway in a streak of silver.

They drive for a while- he's not sure how long- through the winding roads outside Wayne Manor and down through fields of grass and scrubby forests. Occasionally they stumble across a small town, but for the most part, the road stretches long and gray and empty ahead of them. The sun glimmers down through the windshield, shining in his eyes. At some point, he finds the energy to tug down the visor. 

Dick's quiet as they drive but for his soft humming. He'd turned on the radio some ten minutes in, flicking the dial to something Tim thinks might be rock. 

Finally, they pull onto a gravel road, small stones rattling under the tires as they move under the emerald canopy. It ends in a scanty, barren parking lot with nothing but a wooden sign and a few scrubby paths at the end. The car grumbles to a stop. Dick gets out, rummages in the trunk for a moment, then comes up to open Tim's door. 

"We're here," he says with quiet cheer. "You still okay about this?" 

Tim looks away.

"If you really don't want to, we can go home. But I promise it's not too long." A bike helmet lands in his lap. He stares into it. There's a pair of fingerless gloves, wraparound sunglasses, and a small bottle of sunscreen nestled between the straps. 

The bikes rattle in the back as Dick pulls them out, unwrapping the towels he's using as padding. Somewhere, a bird twitters. Insects buzz. Cicadas chirr. 

He's no nature buff, but the forest has always inexplicably been able to soothe his nerves. Pictures practically take themselves here. It's been forever since he treaded down a wooded path. 

Slowly, he picks up the sunglasses. 

When he comes out of the car, Dick's got the bikes ready to go. He grins, reaching out to rub at Tim's nose to wipe away a stray blotch of sunscreen. 

"Good," he says amiably. "Didn't want you to turn into a lobster. Okay, you ready?" 

Tim nods.

"You know the hand signals? Yeah, I figured. Okay. Just follow me and we'll be alright. If you need to stop, just tell me." He slides on his black and blue helmet, and Tim does the same, buckling the strap under his chin. 

A water bottle sits in the holder on the frame of his bike as he swings his leg over the side, settling his foot onto the pedal. Dick waves to him, then rides off, a spray of limestone dust trailing the rugged tires of his dirtbike. He follows. 

It's a good day for a ride. The sun shimmers down through the trees. A musty scent fills the air. It's not a bad kind, just a woodsy kind: rotting leaves and animal musk, the scent of bark and distant pools of freshwater. Wind whips against his sunglasses as they fly down the path, his eyes locked on the bright yellow of Dick's shirt as they round curves and slide through glowing green tunnels of leaves. When they reach a bridge, the boards underneath his tires rattle so hard he can feel the vibrations in his bones, his teeth chattering until they reach the other side with a loud thump.

Beneath the bridge, a stream rushes, burbling and babbling along. He can hear its distant song as they move deeper into the woodlands. The path is empty but for the occasional squirrel or deer. 

Breaths burst in his lungs, harsh and sharp as his legs burn. He's used to exercising, but not this kind, not the sharp pumping motions of the pedals rather than the pounding of footsteps on the hard ground. It's grounding all the same. The brain fog of earlier fades in the sunshine of his focus. Though it reveals a few sharp edges- _shouldn't you be doing something useful? what are you doing here? you're wasting your time, and Dick's too_ \- they're rubbed soft by the rush of wind. 

Eventually, Dick raises a hand and Tim squeezes his brakes, the wheels pushing back against the brake pads as he slows to a stop. The forest parts ahead of them, revealing a large area of something that could only be called a prairie. Gray clouds loom above them on the horizon, slate edges emphasized in glowing sunshine. A dry scent rises from the rustling blades, white, gold, and indigo flowers poking up among the tawny grass. High in the sky a hawk soars and dips, her plaintive cry drifting on the wind. A distant line of emerald trees borders the edges, the forests' presence all-encompassing. But here, in this little pocket, exists an entire land of its own.

He leans his arms on the handlebars and takes it all in, the vice in his chest loosening a little more. 

"Wally and Uncle Clark tell me about the Midwest, sometimes," Dick says abruptly. "Wally misses living there when he's with us. They love how open it is, all the wildflowers, and how far it stretches out. I figured it was 'cause they had so much room to move. Never really understood the beauty of it till I saw this place." 

He nods mutely. Kon's told him of the grasslands too. They've sat together on the Kents' porch before, watching the sunset over the edge of the seas of grasses. But then the plains had been beautiful because he'd seen them with his friends. 

Now, here, standing with the wind whispering secrets in his ears and the chirping of the birds and the bright, vibrant periwinkle of the flowers scattered in the hushing grass... some part of him wishes for his camera. The other half knows he'd never be able to capture the beauty of this place in a photograph.

They gulp down their water in dusty sips, then set off once more. The little pocket of the prairie is even prettier from inside, the winding path leading over dips and dropping down hills. At the end, they turn back. His legs burn pleasantly, the exhilaration of a runner's high hitting him full-force to shove away the lingering exhaustion. Wending back through the grasses, they fly down a huge hill they'd climbed earlier. The sun falls lower in the sky and gray clouds disappear from the horizon. His teeth rattle as they cross the sunshine-soaked bridge, its metal beams glinting in the scarlet light, and limestone dust coats his shoes and legs as Dick leads him back to the gravel parking lot. 

They dismount in silence, water bottles rasping empty as they drink. Dick hands him a granola bar from somewhere after they’ve taken off their helmets and gloves. He accepts and nibbles at it in the passenger seat as his brother loads the bikes back into the car, hungrier than he's been in days. 

"Better?" Dick asks, swinging into the driver's seat. 

His voice runs ahead of his mind. “A little.” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken in… he doesn’t know. There’s a smile in Dick’s voice as he answers.

"Good. Getting out... it helps, huh?"

Tim nods. 

“I know it’s not enough- I know it’s not gonna fix everything. But I figured with that, plus the meds…” 

“Yeah.” He stares up through the windshield. Past the viridian canopy, the last streaks of sunshine paint the clouds pink, lighting the skies aflame. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime, Tim. You know I’m always up for a ride with you.” 

_Lies,_ a different voice chants in Tim’s mind. _He’s too good for you, too busy, he’s lying-_

 _Shut up_ , he retorts. 

It doesn’t. It never does. But it’s not in the driver’s seat, now, and that’s enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no expert on depression; I don't have it chronically (though some of my close friends do), but I've had instances in my life where I've gone through depressive episodes. And... oh, man, I can say from what experience I do have that it's not easy to deal with. It takes a huge amount of effort to wrestle through so much as a few hours. But I did always find that going outside and/or exercising for a while usually helped a good deal, if I could make myself do it. If you are struggling right now, please know you can make it through this. It's okay to feel down and out, and it's okay to struggle, and it's okay to not be okay. Just keep fighting, and if you can, please, please get help. <3
> 
> On a lighter note, I'm a huge fan of biking, and I figured I might tap into that a bit for this. I've been on some truly divine rides near my home, and this was based a little bit off a fond memory of mine of a very similar afternoon with dark rainclouds nearby over some very pretty prairie. We were lucky enough not to get drenched (though it wasn't so on the drive home!). If you happen to live in an area with decent weather I would definitely highly suggest getting out for a bit sometime!
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you've got a prompt for another chapter, please feel free to drop in the comments! I love hearing new ideas <3


	4. mind link

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mindlink is a complex thing. The Team learns this the hard way.

Their mindlink is a complex thing. 

It's a series of long strings, little white strands that M'gann passes to each of them, grasped loosely in their hands. As they wind through their fingers, the colors change, spider silk tinted by their personalities and powers. At the end of the missions, she reels it all back in again. Transforming back to ivory white, it lies in a coil in her hand that she slips into her pocket. 

Except spider silk is sticky and strings are tangled, complex knotting things, and it's all too easy to become irrevocably, irreversibly tangled. They learn this the hard way.

It happens during the exercise. The simulation is a new, different kind of strand, a rope looped over shoulders and around arms, some strange roller coaster harness. But as it goes on the rope tightens. Security turns to a strangle, snug turns to a smother. Strands writhe and move and clutch necks, forming nooses. 

In their hands, the mind strings tighten, tangle, pull. Emotions run amok and so do their bonds. What was once a series of neat rows is now a messy knot.

Eventually, Manhunter slips into their midst with a bone-white knife, sawing the rope till it snaps and falls away. It dissolves into nothingness, freeing its prisoners. But the silk has changed. Though he does his best to untangle the knot, he realizes that there is something irrevocably damaged here- or, perhaps, merely transformed. 

Once held so gently in their hands, it now wriggles up through their fingers, winds up around wrists, and pulls tight, merging into some strange, complex friendship bracelet. The strings sing with emotion and glow with personality. They tremble when he touches his mind-knife to them, and he daren't cut them away. Not now. Not after this. 

M'gann lets the link go, and he waits for them to disappear.

They slacken. The brilliant light fades to a dim glow. No sparks fly up and down, no thoughts or feelings intentionally transferred.

But they stay. They're darker, they're quieter, they're looser, but they're there all the same. Strands tremble with stray thoughts. Minds lap against one another, dark waters splashing against each other's dams, sometimes spilling over. M'gann reinforces them to speak, but even when there's nothing feeding them, emotions vibrate through, echoes of thought float down. 

It takes days for them to realize what's occurred, the trauma of the exercise hiding the true meaning of strange dreams and surges of feeling. One by one, they discover the strands, try to slip the loops only to find the links pressed tighter than ever against their minds. They are more than a mere team, now- have been for a while, truthfully, but now it's solidified in more than friendship. 

The universe has bonded them permanently. It has recognized their friendship, seen their brave deeds, foreseen the long, dark road ahead, and cursed them with a gift. (Or was it blessed them with a curse? No one is sure.)

Now hidden tears are revealed with hugs, silent anger unwound with laughter, quiet hurt cleaned with warm smiles and hot drinks. None of them are quite sure how they hear each other's sobs or sense the gloomy clouds, but most days they're grateful for it. 

That all changes the day Kaldur begins to brick up his walls.

His dams climb higher, built with grief and rage and distance, and his strand grows thinner, fraying under the weight. Barely anything moves. They stand, locked out, and barely a single emotion hums through the threads. It's not quite a death, but it's almost worse. 

Or so they think, until Artemis, too, locks down her mind. 

Her strings fray at her own will, as she takes a sharp knife to them and slices away. Every cut hurts her, every snap and twist of the threads stinging, but she works anyway, till all that's left behind is the faintest strand. Dampeners close onto all but Dick's and Kaldur's and Wally's (whose string has always shone brightest for her, even when not lit by M'gann's mind). 

M'gann and Conner, who have never lost a person in the link, don't recognize the charade. The echoes of emotion are dismissed as phantom strains of a string cut dead. 

Then M'gann grabs ahold of Kaldur's string and pulls.

She tugs and strains and tears, and it hums and groans and shrieks as she shreds away at it, unweaving threads and kicking down his walls with vicious spite. His dams come crumbling down. A tsunami follows. 

_Grief, hurt, pain, duty, worry, regret, regret, regret._

The links sing anew, and though knots thread into the teal and green and they are perhaps a little thinner than they once were, life sparks along with them just the same, and they feel their hearts lighten and souls brighten. 

Then they lose someone. 

For real.

A searing pain echoes in their minds. Strands snap with the shriek of a thousand guitar strings. A golden thread, sparking with loving ruby lightning, vanishes into darkness. Each of theirs frays in sympathy. 

Wally leaves behind empty, raw, bleeding holes where once he'd sent warmth, compassion, joy, strength. An echoing abyss stares at them from where there used to be light. No phantom strains echo here. No odd little pulses of hurt or hope. Only blackness, worse than a lost limb. 

The psychic lash back leaves them broken for weeks. It frays all their bonds, leaving them humming with pain, a torn, split bundle of nerves rubbed in salt. 

It's not the worst part of it, though.

The worst part is the black tarry water that spills from Dick and Artemis's minds. Dams crack, snap, crumble, and water drips, leaks, flood, sick sticky grief overflowing. Water stains all the threads dark with their tears and hollows them out. 

They try to mend them best they can, shoring up confidence and packing love into cracks. Strings are bathed in the soaps of empathy and compassion. Slowly, strand by strand, they bind them back together. 

Wally's strand leaves a gap that no one could ever fill. They don't try. But their strings grow stronger all the same. Knots and fraying fade in the wake of new light and the shooting stars of thoughts. Friendships are repaired and hope is mended. Life moves on and so do they, and the looping threads of their friendship move with them. 

(He comes back. Impossibly, irreversibly, _wonderfully_ , he returns. 

The link snaps back into place. It's not perfect, never as it was before, but present, all the same, humming with love and hope and compassion and _Wally._

The frays and the knots never truly leave. But the bonds are rewoven, colors warming, and the Team knows true peace for the first time in years.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was... more experimental than anything else. I love the mindlink and I've always liked the concept that the Team ended up irreversibly bonded through it, so this is sort of my headcanon on that.
> 
> I don't care if Wally hasn't come back yet, he's COMING BACK, otherwise I'm going to heaven and dragging him back myself.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	5. new blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bart's settling into the Garricks' home. When Jay sits down to talk with him, they both learn something new. 
> 
> A "Bloodlines" follow-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back on track! (Hopefully. The next few days promise to be busy, so we'll see.)
> 
> This takes place sometime during the day after "Bloodlines" (if you don't remember: the episode in which Bart comes back and saves Barry).

Porcelain clatters as Jay lays out plates on a small tea tray. The TV's muffled chatter floats into the kitchen. He reaches for an apple from the fruit bowl and examines the red skin carefully, checking for bruises. It's nearly the exact color of his old uniform, he realizes as he sets it on the tray. The same as Barry's, too, and Wally's, and- 

Huh. The same shade as Bart's suit, come to think of it. It's a strange thought. The kid's only been here for a day and already he's uprooting Jay's view of himself and the other Flashes. The other two's costumes were intentional reflections of his legacy. Bart's... Bart's probably reflects _their_ legacy. He's descended from at least a generation or two of speedsters. In whatever strange future the kid lived in- _forty years_ , he'd said, so long and yet so very short- did it represent the same thing it did now? The same ideals that they had spent so long cultivating,? 

He thinks so. He hopes so, at any rate. The kid's good, if a bit hyper, and Wally had been the same at the start. 

But something isn't ringing true about all of this. 

Barry had agreed when the three of them had talked, after the battle, but he'd admitted that the entire situation rattled him. The concept of having children at all, let alone grandchildren, was unprecedented to him. He had said- to their agreement- that his judgment wasn't reliable. 

Wally, on the other hand, had said that he saw it too, and he's always had better instincts for liars in comparison to his uncle. Not at the beginning, of course- but after years in a black ops team, that changed. Then there's the message he passed on from Nightwing and Robin. Both of them are suspicious: Impulse's body language, his speech, what little information he's given away... not all of it matches up. 

Something isn't right. Bart isn't telling the whole truth, and it's not just because of 'spoilers.' It's unsettling, but it's impossible to tell what exactly it could mean. They've never had to deal with this sort of time-travel before. Teleportation, yes; a few days' travel, sure. But years? _Decades?_ Up until now, it was unthinkable, entirely theoretical. For all they know, he's here to wreck the future and become a new problem in what is already- from what worried whisperings he's caught from Barry and the Leaguers he keeps in touch with- a grave situation. 

And yet the kid had saved Barry's life. He'd helped bystanders, and despite his impulsiveness- oh, how his alias fit- he's done everything he can to minimize damage and potential problems in the timestream. He is, if not great at restraining himself, at least more thoughtful than he lets on. By all rights, he seems to be as trustworthy as he claims. 

Whatever the case, they'll find out eventually. Wally supports Bart's claims about creating rifts in the timestream; no matter how suspicious they are, whatever threat the kid poses is nothing in comparison to the consequences of messing with time. No tests can be run either. Miss Martian's too likely to find out too much if she goes to the depths she required to determine his truthfulness. Traditional questioning techniques won't reveal everything they need without discovering too much. For better or worse, they have nothing but Bart's word and their gut instinct. 

Jay's gut isn't telling him that this is a good situation, but it's got nothing bad to say about the kid either. It's best to give him a chance. 

Placing a final banana on the tray, he picks it up and walks carefully into the living room. 

Bart's perched on the end of the couch, seated at the very edge. Shoulders hunched, he rests his elbows on his knees. When he spots Jay, though, he moves, quickly leaning back into the cushions and throwing a careless arm over the back. 

He pulls the hood hiding his eyes back, trying for a casual grin. It's worryingly convincing. Only years of training let Jay spot the tension in his thin frame, the task made harder by the bagginess of his clothes. The hood is attached to a worn Flash sweatshirt, something of Wally's that had never made it to the trash. Mary kept some of his old clothes in a box in their attic. He'd dropped them off with a knowing smile, anticipating the kid's lack of an overnight bag. 

"Besides," he'd added, leaning in the front doorway. "Who knows what kinda weird fashions they have in the 2050s? If it's anything like your 1950s were, he'd stick out like a sore thumb." 

Jay rolled his eyes and reminded him that he wasn't _that_ old, but they'd both been laughing. Wally wasn't wrong, after all.

The only thing he hadn't had spare of were sneakers, to no one's surprise. One of the boys from the black ops team had promised to drop off some tomorrow. 

Setting the tea tray on a side table, he takes a moment to watch the kid. He's skinny for a thirteen-year-old (his age had been one of the few snippets of information he'd been willing to part with), practically swimming in his cousin's too-big jeans with holes in the knees. Even so, the resemblance is striking, if not in appearance then in attitude. Wally had done nearly the same thing the first time he'd come by, though the forced casual manner had come _after_ Jay and Joan had told him to relax. For all his young, cavalier attitude, he hadn't been anywhere near as confident as he'd pretended. Bart has the same hallmarks, though he hides them better. 

He perks up at the sight of food before faltering. "Afternoon snack?" 

"Mmhm," Jay says, plunking the tray in his lap. He mutes the TV- a piece on yesterday's battle, more footage of destroyed buildings and cleanup. "Don't spill or Joan will have both our heads." 

He says it lightly, but Bart tenses. "Maybe I should just eat in the kitchen then-" 

"I'm teasing. Trust me, it wouldn't be the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. Eat up." 

"Crash." Wary eyes examine him, then the food, a direct contrast to his eager response. He doesn't reach for anything. Jay suppresses a sigh and takes one of the apples. 

Immediately, Bart snatches the other and digs in. Courtesy, or something else? There's an expression of near-bliss on the kid's face when he thinks Jay isn't looking, as though the fruit were some rare delicacy. They had to have apples in the future, right? They'd survived his ninety years just fine. 

"Don't have apples in your time?" he prods discreetly. 

"Um," Bart says, swallowing hard. "Yeah! Yeah, we do, it's just that they aren't like this, y'know? Genetic modifications and all that and time things and..." He waves a hand. "Not the same thing."

But he's glancing to the side, twitching and- Jay doesn't let it show, but inwardly, his frown deepens. He wasn't fidgeting earlier. Come to think of it, the kid only moves when called upon to do so. If he's not the center of attention, he's still as a grave and tense as a drawn bow.

Wally had fidgeted to no end as a kid, and still often does. So does Barry, and even, Jay will admit himself. Bart, with his miles' worth of energy, should be moving constantly.

So why isn't he? 

Before he can follow that train of thought, Bart changes the subject. "So!" he says cheerfully, dropping the core onto a spare plate. (He doesn't pick up anything else until Jay does.) "The mission from yesterday, that was pretty crash, huh? Dad told me lots about Grandpa's adventures but they're way cooler in person. Guess I'm gonna be seeing a lot more now, huh?"

"We'll see, son. You'll need some more training, first. Things are different in this time." Jay pauses as a hunch that's long been dogging his thoughts draws to the forefront. "But wouldn't you prefer to try to find a way home?"

His eyes widen. "Well, I guess-" he stammers. "I mean yeah, sure-"

"Won't your parents be missing you?" 

He sighs, eyes going dark. For the briefest of moments, there's something like grief in his expression, wiped away a second later. "Yeah, they will. But they knew there were risks with this, it's not like we didn't know this was a possibility-" 

"And you still did it?" he cuts in sharply. What sort of parents would willingly let their thirteen-year-old child do something that could potentially cause them to lose him forever to the tides of time? Not the kind of parents Barry and Iris would raise, he hopes. 

Bart shrugs, backtracking rapidly. "Hey, life's got risks, right? It was a pretty slim chance, like on a million, honestly we didn't really think it'd happen, and besides maybe someone'll come back for me, right?" He moves on again- and they're both speedsters, they tend to move quickly, but this seems more from fear. Before he can interrupt he's blindsided with another question. "Training? What kind of training? Training with Gramps? What about you?" 

They need to talk more about the _lost in time_ problem, but pressing him right now would likely make him clam up. Jay opts to go along for now. He'll find out more later. "With Barry, yes. Possibly with me. Wally, if he can find the time. He's most familiar with the team and fighting at your age." 

For a brief instant, his eyes light up. Then Bart's shoulders slump, head dipping as he stares at the tray. He still hasn't taken any more food. "Yeah. Sure. Wally. That'd be crash." 

Jay raises an eyebrow. "Not a fan?" 

"No! No, I'm just..." He hesitates, playing with the strings of the sweatshirt. "Uh, I don't think he likes me that much. I guess I blew it with lapping him and putting Gramps at risk and all." 

The assumption isn't unreasonable, but Jay knows better. He can't help his soft laugh. "Ah, don't worry. He'll warm up to you." 

"Yeah."

Sighing, he reaches out to put his hand on his shoulder, and Bart flinches. He looks shameful a second later, hiding it under a bright smile, but Jay withdraws his hand with a veiled frown. 

"He doesn't hate you," he says gently. "You just remind him of something he doesn't want to think about." 

"That he's not as fast as us?" 

Jay chuckles. "That too. But he's used to that. You're a lot like he was at your age."

Bart stares at him. "Seriously? But he's so _grouchy_."

"Not then. And not now, either, when you get to know him. Yesterday's situation was dangerous. He had to take it seriously, because the last time someone on his team didn't, people got hurt. That's what he's worried about. Wally's learned the hard way what an overconfident attitude can do." He has, too, but time's taught him the consequences of taking things too seriously the same as taking them too lightly. "Mostly, he's worried about what will happen if you're irresponsible like he was, and it's not just because of the people you might hurt. He's worried about you. He doesn't want you to learn the consequences the way he did." 

(Possibly it _was_ partly because Bart's speed rankled him, and because he didn't like the reminder of all of the other unsavory aspects of his younger personality, but Bart doesn't need to know that. It's not the heart of the problem.) 

Biting his lip, Bart nods. "Is that why he retired?"

"Partly. College is tough, too. He and his girlfriend made the decision together." 

"Girlfriend?" He tries to maintain an expression of innocence, but Jay can tell he knows something. No surprise. Those two probably have kids of their own in Bart's time. God knows they love each other enough for it. Young lovers as devoted as they are are rare.

"Yes. Artemis Crock. She was one of his teammates. They left together a while after Aquagirl died." 

Freezing, the kid stares at him. "Died? They- no one ever said anything about that." 

"It's not a fond memory. Try not to ask about it unless they bring it up." 

"Gotcha. So..." His shoulders lift, a light of hope sparking in his eyes. "He really doesn't hate me?" 

Jay shakes his head, laughing. "No, Bart. If anything he likes you. It might take him a while to admit it, but when he does, you'll know." 

"Oh. But what about his retirement?"

He pauses. If he's being honest, he's counting down the days until both Artemis and Wally give up that up. It would be better if they stayed out. But if they're anything at all like him- if they're anything like any of the heroes he's known- they won't manage it. After all, he hasn't seen Wally happier in the last year than he was a day ago. Despite the danger, there had been a gleam of joy to his eyes that Jay knows like an old friend. 

But maybe they will. Maybe they'll stay out, stay stafe, stay _alive_. He can't undermine that, can't lose his faith in it. 

So he shrugs. "He was running with us yesterday, wasn't he?"

"Wasn't that an emergency?"

"Yes, but he'll consider your training a priority. He worries too much not to get involved. Don't worry, kid." 

Bart nods, then looks up, a sliver of excitement in his gaze. "So, uh. You said maybe with you too, right?" 

Oh, he knows _that_ tone. God only knows how many times Wally used it on him. "Yes." 

"So could we do that? Now?" 

Jay grins. "I know a place we can go. Let me get my hat." He gestures at the food on the tray. "Finish that first. It's all yours, we won't eat it anyway." 

By the time he's back, all in uniform, and has informed Joan they're going out (she pretends to be upset but she knows how much this means to him, so it's with a teasing laugh that she sends him back to Bart) the kid's scarfed down everything left, put the tray in the kitchen, and is now standing in the foyer, yellow goggles clutched in his hands. That makes him smile too, reminds him of another green-eyed teen bouncing in his sunshine boots on the doormat. 

"Ready to run?" he asks.

"Duh!" Impulse says as he pulls on his goggles. "Race you!" 

Laughing, they dash out the door together, leaving the hot scent of ozone in their wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I love the Flash family yet? No? Well, I do. :P 
> 
> I've always wondered exactly how much of a role Wally had in Bart's training. Personally, I think it must've been a decent amount, given that we know A) that Bart at the very least was visiting him (Jaime's comment that Bart's cousin feeds him junk food is the big giveaway) and B) that Wally knew him well enough to feel confident passing on the Kid Flash mantle to him. Given how much the mantles of superheroes mean to them, I can't see him giving that up without complete confidence that his successor could uphold its value. (Plus, Wally was pretty concerned about Bart endangering Barry in "Bloodlines"- I doubt he would've passed it on without total confidence that Bart wouldn't get Flash killed!) 
> 
> I headcanon that an older, softer Wally must've had a hand in training Bart in the future. He and Artemis probably had kids by this point, and they also likely spent a lot of time helping Iris raise Don and Dawn, making him something of a psuedo-great uncle to Bart (and Artemis something like a great aunt). Meaning, when Bart comes back to find this sorta grumpy and serious version of the guy who may very well have been a loving older mentor figure... well, it must've thrown him off a bit. I wasn't really able to convey that here, but that's what I was thinking as I was writing this: Bart's going "how is THAT the Wally I know? How'd he change so much? Why does he hate me now?" 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	6. hospital bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking in the infirmary, Wally enjoys a quiet moment with Artemis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in no particular time period- probably sometime between season one and season two- in the Young Justice universe.

Sleep's embrace loosens on Wally's conscious. Foggy cotton fills space left by abyssal dreams as he steadily becomes aware of the warmth pervading his aching body. For a moment, he lies heavy, weighted, limbs but a distant memory. Awareness is the faraway surface of the sea, and he sits at the bottom, barely cognizant of light glimmering through the waves above. 

But the human body is buoyant. Slowly, inevitably, he must rise. 

The memory of pain runs burning hands over his body, limbs prickling at its touch. When he searches further, all he finds is cotton. Pain is buried somewhere out of his reach. He's in no rush to uncover it. 

Through the cotton, there is a warm weight lying in one of his hands. It's comforting for reasons he can't quite say yet. 

One by one, words march into his head. Straggling at first, they wade through the murk, forming lines, then crowds. 

_Mission... kids trapped. Carrying them out... blood?_ The memories sting. He suspects the drugs were for more than physical pain. But there is one clear phrase he remembers that reassures him, spoken to him, accompanying throbbing agony, copper in his mouth: 

_They're all safe._

Dick, right? Or had it been Kaldur? Someone. All he remembers after that is the ground coming up quickly and someone calling his name. 

Something somewhere is beeping, a low pervasive buzz, but he can hear no conversation beyond that. The infirmary? 

He forces his leaded eyelids open and immediately regrets the decision. The lights are dimmed but burn all the same. Blinking quickly through the tears, he takes stock. Pillows are piled behind him along with the raised mattress, propping him up. There's an IV running out of his bare right arm. Pale sheets cover his legs. Under them, the outline of his legs isn't bulky enough for casts, so he didn't break them. Thank God- he's pretty sure he'd go insane if he had to do that again.

(Though the others claim he'd drive them crazy first. Maybe they could get a joint room in Arkham.)

His neck hurts, but when he dips his chin there's no brace beneath. With a bit of effort, he can wiggle his toes and the fingers of his right hand. Has he broken anything? Wally's increasingly sure he hasn't.

Oh, wait, too soon. There's a stabbing in his ribs when he inhales. Great. 

The air is cool, as the infirmary usually is, and pungent with the scent of antiseptic. White curtains with cartoon wolves (M'gann's idea: Conner always smiles to see them, so naturally, the rest of them tolerate it) surround his bed. The overhead lights are dimmed to a faint white glow. Breathing slowly through the pangs in his chest, he closes his eyes, head sinking further into the pillow. 

Most people would be unsettled at the sight of the hospital. To be honest, he always gets a sense of dread here. Too many missions have ended among the salt-white walls; too many nights worried away in hard folding chairs; too many screams echoing off the cool metal counters. He's shed more tears here than he cares to count, fallen asleep at his friend's sides only to jerk awake with a crick in his neck minutes or hours later, shaken out of restless nightmares to shrill beeps or hoarse shouts.

A tiny part of him wonders when the day will come that he wakes to the shrill, drawn-out cry of a heart monitor gone dead. 

(Once, Dick had torn out his leads in his nightmares. He will never forget how his heart had stopped, the spiking rush of panic, how his breaths had come so harsh and fast and his throat had choked up for hours afterward. 

He didn't leave Dick's bedside for three days straight that time.) 

Yet, despite this, a wave of relief washes over him upon seeing the tiny blue wolves scattered over the curtains. There is no need to hide here. His wounds are Kid Flash's but he can be content to be Wally West, no mask over his eyes, no bitter lies, no bustling orderlies or harried nurses, or stilted, formal doctors. Only M'gann, J'onn, and Dinah, along with the rest of his guardians, family, and friends, are welcome here. Memories of movie nights are embedded here too, in these big warm beds. Spilled popcorn and game pieces have clattered over cool tiled floors. Sobs and laughter mingle here, desperate reassurances tangled with teasing and inside jokes. 

What's that word, the thing they call chocolate and goodbyes? _Bittersweet_. 

For now, it's sweet. The warmth in his left hand has resolved out to a slender olive-skinned hand, rough and calloused against his palm. Its owner leans heavily up against his side, her weight indenting the pillows and weighing on the bed. Artemis's soft breaths puff against his exposed collarbone through the loosened neck of his regulation-grade-blue hospital gown. Forgoing the promised darkness of sleep, he instead turns to look upon the brightest person in his world.

(She would mock him for saying that, he thinks fondly. According to her, he was "the biggest overdramatic sap the world has ever seen, including M'gann." Her delight upon discovering this apparent trait of his had been contagious, and it makes all her ribbing worth it. Mostly.) 

Turning his head, he leans his chin carefully against her forehead. She's made herself at home in the tiny space between him and the edge of the bed. Her golden hair falls over the pillows where she's turned toward him, enough to be a blanket unto itself. The sheets bunch where she lies at an angle, feet a centimeter from his calves. She looks troubled in her sleep, eyes pinching at the corners, jaw clenched, scrunched nose a bare inch from his neck.

On her chest, a faint golden lightning bolt rises and falls in time with her breath. The sight warms him more thoroughly than the blankets ever could. She's stolen his Flash sweatshirt again. It's so big on her it comes halfway down her thighs. If he weren't afraid of waking her, he'd press a kiss to her forehead. He settles for squeezing her hand slightly.

Her jaw slackens, pained expression becoming warmer, comforted, sweet. 

Forget the pain. Forget the troubling circumstances that brought them to this. Forget the IV running out of his arm. If he could stay like this forever, just stretch this moment with her into eternity? He would. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So firstly, I have some thanks to give: thank you all for the lovely comments and kudos! <3 They're massively appreciated, and seeing them only makes me more excited to post new chapters and keep going! 
> 
> I'm working on getting back on schedule; this was meant to be published yesterday, but family came down suddenly a few days ago and I haven't had a spare moment since. Starting today that shouldn't be a problem anymore. I WILL finish this challenge, late or not :P
> 
> Finally, I have some exciting news I'd like to share if you haven't been keeping up with DC lately: there's going to be a season four Young Justice panel this Saturday, August 22nd, and guess what? Not only are eight voice actors attending- including five of the six actors for the Team- but they'll be doing an audio play (aka table read) of a season four episode for us, plus a Q&A! It's completely free to attend but it'll only be up two times in the twenty-four hours of the event, so please, if you haven't already, make sure you check DC Fandome's website and mark it on your calendar! I'm beyond excited for this :D
> 
> See you soon! Thanks for reading, and feel free to come chat with me on Tumblr: [eyrieofsynapses.tumblr.com](https://eyrieofsynapses.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you'd like updates, extra notes on my work, or just to chat, come visit me on Tumblr! https://eyrieofsynapses.tumblr.com/


End file.
